A Second Chance
by scorchedtrees
Summary: When Adam dies, he wakes up on an all-too-familiar California beach. Adam/One.


He never believed in an afterlife before.

It isn't something Mogadorians really think about—glory is for the living, for warriors who survived multiple battles to fight and conquer another day. Fallen soldiers are not celebrated; they tried their best, sacrificed their lives for the cause, but in the end they died because they were weak and only the strong are worthy of praise.

Even after he joined the Loric side, he never thought much about death—he knew he would die someday, and part of him always suspected he wouldn't live to see the end of the war, but what happened after death never occurred to him. He was too focused on the present, on honing his Legacy and outsmarting the Mogs and taking down Setrákus Ra to think about anything else—and it isn't until he opens his eyes, sees the bright blue sky above him and feels the warm sand on his back, remembers the feeling of the blade bursting through his chest that he realizes there may be something more after death.

He sits up without trouble, looking down at his hands. Last he saw they were splattered with blood, both his and others', but now the skin of his palms is as white and clean as ever. He's wearing what he put on that morning before the battle, a pair of jeans and a faded blue T-shirt, though his feet are bare. He moves his legs, wriggles his arms, twists his head this way and that; everything appears to be in working order.

At last he drops his gaze to his chest—it is hard to forget the feeling, the sudden excruciating pain like a thousand strikes of lightning that shot through his nervous system a split second before he saw the gleaming silver point coming out of his front. There is no blood on his T-shirt, and he takes a deep breath as he pulls his shirt out and looks down at the skin below.

Nothing. The front of his chest is as pale and unruptured as ever.

He presses his fingers to his back, feeling for the wound the blade must have made entering his body. He must look stupid, sitting there trying to cover the expanse of his back with his hands, but in the end he has to acknowledge that he is not injured in any way.

Was the battle just a dream then? Is this also a dream? Is he going to wake up any moment now, in his own sleeping bag, Four and Nine and Sam and Six and the rest of them all sprawled together on the floor next to him?

The memories of the battle are far too clear though—the blinding bursts of light, the smoke and the screams and the blood and all the fallen bodies. Piles of ashes, fire and wind whipping about—

And his fight, his fight with the Loric traitor Five, the shaking of the earth and metallic fingers and one blade against another; he recalls plunging his weapon deep into the traitor's gut and how he made a mistake, turned to fend off another Mog, thinking Five was done for, and left his own back unguarded—

He shakes his head and pushes himself to his feet, surveying his surroundings. He cannot be sure of anything right now, if that was a dream, if this is a dream, if he is really dead, but at least he can discover where he is.

His breath catches in his throat and his steps falter when he recognizes the place.

His feet sink into the sand as he stops, staring out across the bright blue sky and the deep blue sea, the sunlight sparkling golden off the water, almost a reflection of the sand of that beautiful California beach he will never forget.

He is back here, and he is alone.

Not a second after the thought crosses his mind, a voice he only hears in his dreams snaps behind him, "Who the fuck are you?"

Adam is almost afraid to look, his heart beating double time in his chest, his throat closing up as he tries to swallow. His mouth goes dry and he can feel sweat starting to form on his hands, and he takes a deep, deep breath before turning around.

One stands across the beach from him, her long blond hair whipping about her face, eyes hard and face set in a suspicious scowl. She has a hand on her hip, the other hanging loosely by her side, and he remembers her clothes all too well—she was wearing them on her last day in Malaysia.

"They told me I had to wait for someone," she says, walking closer to him, though her steps are measured and careful and the wary look never leaves her eyes. "And I've been waiting for a long time. But I don't know you. So. Who the fuck are you?"

He tries to swallow again, to clear his throat and find his voice, but when his mouth opens nothing comes out. She looks exactly the same as the day she died, not a year older, and he suddenly feels strange because One is his best friend and now he is far older than her and she does not know him.

But she never did. She died long before he joined her people and all his memories of her are of a phantom, a shadow of her real self that only existed in his mind, and when faced with the actual person he does not know what to say.

Her eyes narrow in distrust when he does not respond. "You look familiar," she says slowly, her gaze raking over his form: his black hair, his pale skin, the circles under his dark eyes. She looks him up and down twice before jumping back with a start.

"You're a Mogadorian," she says flatly, crossing her arms over her chest. "They told me to wait this long just so I could see a _Mogadorian_."

Adam does not have an answer to that, and she just shakes her head.

"Why?" she wants to know, suddenly sounding very tired. "What did you do?"

He swallows once more, opens his mouth—"Who's _they_?"

That was not what he meant to say, but the words are out there now. He looks at One, almost imploringly, because he doesn't know how to talk to her or what he has to say, and he doesn't know if that makes him more frustrated or depressed or angry.

"I don't know," she says, something slightly bitter in her tone. "But I was told to wait. I know that. So answer my damn question—what did you do?"

She is staring at him with those big eyes he knows all too well, her features all too familiar, the way she speaks something he hears in his mind every day. Looking at her, he wants to approach her, walk up to her, wrap his arms around her as tightly as he can and never let go because he never had a chance before to hold her, really hold her—but he cannot, because she is not the One he knows, and she does not know him.

So he only shoves his hands into his pockets and takes another slow breath, trying to calm his racing heart and clear his mind. "I fought for the Loric."

"Why?"

And that's the exact thing he has no idea how to answer. _You_ is his first thought, but that's not entirely true; there is more to it than just that. She showed him the truth, showed him how to live, but he fought on when she was gone. Years of pain and violence, death and destruction caused by his people need to be undone, and he did all he could to prevent further Mogadorian damage to the world.

"Because it was the right thing to do," he finally says.

The suspicion on her face has not abated. "You're one Mog of thousands, millions, all who blindly follow their Great Leader. What made you different from everyone else then?"

"You."

That is one thing he knows the answer to, because it is an undeniable truth that if he had never met One, taken a whirl through her memories and learned what the universe and his people really were like, he would still be part of the Mogadorian army today—likely dead already, just another weak soldier whose life was snuffed out in the scheme of something far bigger, because he never would have had the courage to do anything against them if he'd been alone.

One's gaze is softer now, suspicion still there but edged with confusion. "I don't understand."

"You don't have to understand." Adam turns away from her then, turns to stare out over the vast expanse of the glittering sea and the cloudless sky beyond. "I'm dead now anyway."

There is no response for a long time, and he thinks she may be gone—but when he looks back, she has stepped closer, just a little, her arms still crossed over her chest, her face thoughtful as she studies him.

Meeting those eyes is harder than he anticipated as he asks, "So what's next?"

She smiles then—small, strained, but it is still a smile and the sight of it does something unexpected to his heart, which should not still be beating considering he's now 100% positive he's dead, but he feels it pulsing in his chest all the same. "I don't know," she says, "but down that way there's a great place to surf. You wanna take a walk…?"

She looks at him expectantly, and with an odd pang he realizes she doesn't even know his name. "Adamus Sutekh. But I prefer Adam."

"Adam." She cocks her head at him, nods at the stretch of beach behind her. "Let's take a walk."

* * *

_A/N: Sorry I think this could've been done so much better but ah well. I want to write a different version of this too in which when he dies his memories of her go to her actual self and yeah. But whatever._


End file.
